Only a Duke Will Do by Tamara Gill

Chapter 12

Lord Wardoor’s home was an Elizabethan designed manor, rectangular in shape with two circular Corinthian pillars that stood on either side of the entrance and reached all the way to the roofline. The family’s coat of arms was engraved on the stonework and stated a date of 1577.

The estate house sat on a flat piece of land with rolling hills surrounding it. It was a very pretty residence and, as the carriage rolled to a stop before the front door, she contemplated it as her possible home, where she would raise her children and watch them grow up and prepare for Seasons of their own. Three footmen came out and waited for the carriage.

“We’re here.”

Anne’s excited declaration pulled her from her thoughts, and she clasped the squabs as they rocked to a halt. Stepping down, she took the chance to further inspect the gardens, and noted a vast amount of lawn surrounded by native plants and bushes. At least it explained why Wardoor had discussed his lawns at length the other evening. The gardens were not manicured or perfectly set out like the gardens at Dunsleigh. Here, the plantings had a cottage feel to them and yet, she wasn’t disappointed. In fact, it suited the home and made it feel warm and welcoming.

Lord Wardoor came out to greet them, his Hessian boots clicking on the stone steps. “Lord and Lady Kinruth, Lady Isolde, welcome to my home. I hope your journey was pleasant.”

Isolde dipped a small curtsy. “It was very pleasant, thank you.”

Anne agreed as he ushered them inside. A footman dressed in green livery took their gloves and coats before they walked into the front drawing room, a pleasant, yellow painted space with light wooden furniture that made it seem larger than it was.

She smiled at Wardoor. “Your home is truly lovely, my lord. I’m surprised you do not stay here more often.” Isolde sat down next to Anne who was busy pouring tea for them all. “Papa spoke of your estate before he passed away, and he said your stream has some of the best fishing he’d ever known.”

Wardoor chuckled. “It does, and if you fish, my lady, I’d be glad to take you down to the river’s edge, or we could take out the small wooden boat I dock at the boathouse.”

“I would like that very much,” she said, taking a sip of tea and welcoming the warm beverage. “We were raised in a home full of adventure. Not the most conventional for a duke’s residence, I suppose, but those days were fabulous and perfect for children.”

“Just as it should be.” He sat across from her and regarded her with benign appreciation. Well, it was certainly what she believed it to be, even though it was nothing like how Merrick often watched her, his gaze all but burning with pleasure.

The realization made her wonder just what married life would be like with Wardoor, a friend for whom she had no romantic feelings. Would they come to have those feelings over time, or would they eventually regret their choice, start seeing the other as a hindrance they never should’ve saddled themselves with?

While others who made up the party trickled in from their journey from Town, they spoke of inconsequential things. Then Lord Wardoor had them shown to their rooms and Isolde, too, took the opportunity to rest before dinner.

Her room was comfortable, if lacking in finery, but the house was of a different style to what she was accustomed, and one had to make allowances when making a marriage match. The walls were paneled and painted blue with paintings of people and landscapes. The bed was covered in a cream duvet that matched the material on the headboard. Her windows overlooked the lawn and rolling hills beyond, all of which she could see while lying down. She supposed it had a very French feel to its design, and the room was probably the best he had for his guests.

That evening, Isolde dressed in a chiffon mint-green gown with gold beading on the small shoulder cuffs. She stood before the full-length mirror and studied how the gown suited her dark hair and pale skin, but as much as she was happy with how she appeared, even she could see her eyes lacked vitality or excitement.

She was bored and it was only her first day…

With a sigh, she headed downstairs and found most people already seated for dinner. Lord Wardoor sat at the head of the table, and he gestured to a seat to his right. Her sister Alice, seated on the opposite side of the table, caught her eye and winked, grinning as she took a sip of wine. Isolde looked to see if Wardoor had caught her sibling’s action and was relieved he had not, but startled to find him watching her instead. She smiled and also took a sip of wine, hoping the feeling that she was doing something wrong would pass.

Lord Clifford, the Marquess of Nottingham, sat to her right and was very pleasant, if not a little older than the congregation. Isolde noted his attention toward her mama and liked hearing her parent laugh, her cheeks rosy with flattery. It had been a long time since she’d seen her so lively. “I do hope you find my home suitable, Isolde. I would so like to have your approval of it.”

“From what I have seen so far, I do believe there would be very few indeed who would not approve. You have a lovely home, truly.” Even if she wasn’t quite certain that the home was for her. Could she really marry without any deeper feeling than congeniality for her husband? A vexing thought told her that after all she’d been through, she could.

He smiled easily at her praise. “Thank you. I’ve worked hard to keep it from falling down around my ears, and I know it needs some improvements, but they will come in time. Would you care to walk the gardens after dinner? I have lamps scattered throughout the grounds, and my gardener ensures they’re lit every night when I’m in residence.”

Isolde noted Alice watching her, knowing her sister would’ve heard Wardoor’s request. Did she wish to walk with him, in the twilight, alone? The thought left her a little uneasy, and she took another sip of wine. She met his expectant, if not a little excited, gaze and nodded. “That would be lovely, thank you.” Isolde sat back as a course of turtle soup was placed before her. “But should we go outdoors? I would surely be taking you from your guests, and I wouldn’t wish to do so.”

Wardoor waved away her concern, spooning a healthy amount of soup into his mouth before stating, “You would not be. We will go outdoors for only a few minutes, and there will be others about, I’m sure. None of my guests will feel slighted, I assure you.”

She cleared her throat. “I look forward to it then.” Isolde ate the soup, which tasted more like chicken broth than turtle and did her best not to think about why Wardoor wished to walk with her…alone. But in reality, she knew why. His courting would naturally lead up to them being alone.

She’d known Wardoor for years, but now that the time had arrived that he could possibly propose, nerves assailed her. If she said yes, she would be doing so without any deeper feelings for the man than friendship. Isolde studied him a moment as he laughed and conversed with Lady Sewell to his right. He wasn’t vicious, had always been congenial with her. She supposed they could have a happy match. Initially, they might muddle along, but maybe in time, real affection would grow. It wasn’t an impossible dream.

With such a thought, Isolde shook any doubts aside. With marriage came children, and that, above all else, was what she wished for, and Wardoor promised both children and security. An alliance with him was better than pining for things she could not have.

“I should imagine the next fortnight will be very busy for you. What activities do you have planned for us all?” she asked, wanting to distract herself from her thoughts of the walk.

“Many, all of which I hope you’ll enjoy. I’ve set up a room for the women to paint, if they wish, and I’ve had a harp brought from London as I believe your friend Anne likes to play. There are horses, of course, for both the men and woman to ride, and I have game on my property, if any of the gentlemen wish to partake in that pursuit.”

The thought of going for a ride was welcome, and Isolde put it on her to-do list for tomorrow. “I’ll admit, I’m not as accomplished a rider as Victoria, but I’d like to go out sometime while I’m here. I prefer to be outdoors over being secluded inside.”

He nodded, his smile warm, giving her hope that maybe affection could grow. Someday… “I thought as much, and we could invite the others to join us.

“I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. Perhaps a picnic?”

He smiled fully then. “I do hope we’re able to become more acquainted during this time, Isolde. It is what I had planned when I had the idea of a house party.”

Isolde could understand why. But the continuing war that was waging inside her body—her mind screamed to move on with her life, clasp what was offered and make the best of a situation. Her heart however, the beating little beast, refused to feel anything for the gentleman before her. Refused to even try to form some emotional tie to Wardoor. He was firmly locked in the friendship box, and there he was bound to stay. “I’m sure we will, and since we’re going to stroll the gardens after dinner, we’re making a good start.” He smiled but didn’t reply, and she was thankful for the silence that descended between them as they finished their meal.

A little after dinner, when everyone was settled in the downstairs drawing room, partaking in card games and music, Wardoor walked her onto the terrace. It was a warm night, and the air held the soft scent of flowers and freshly cut lawn. They headed toward the stairs that led to a graveled path, walking, if her memory served correctly, in the direction of the lake.

He took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “I wanted to talk to you in private and thought, instead of leaving you all week to wonder when I would gather my courage, I would speak my desire on the first night of the house party.” Isolde swallowed, keeping her gaze fixed on the path ahead, trying and failing miserably to not get too carried away at his words and what they could mean. “What did you wish to speak to me about, my lord?”

Please don’t propose. Please don’t propose.

“You may be aware of my rakish reputation in London and what that would mean for my wife, should I ever acquire one.”

They continued to walk, and Isolde glanced at him. He seemed pensive but determined. “I have heard of your reputation. I doubt there are many who have not.” She chuckled to quell any concerns he may have. Men did have lives before marriage, more freeing than women did, but it was nothing Isolde wasn’t aware of and she was secure enough not to worry.

He smiled down at her and seemed to relax further. “I wanted there to be no secrets, no misunderstandings, should we become betrothed. There are certain aspects of my life that I do not wish to be parted from, as I’m sure you do as well.”

“And they are?” Isolde asked, curious now.

“Should we marry, I would desire us to start a family immediately, and that would entail me coming to you at least four times a week, if you’re in agreement. We would have separate bedrooms, of course, joined by a shared dressing room. You would have a generous allowance and freedom to attend or do whatever pleased you. I would spend some nights at my club and…”

Even in the moonlight Isolde spotted the high color that marked Wardoor’s cheeks. “And what?”

He cleared his throat, his smile a little pained. “I want to be honest, Isolde, but I fear what I will say next may result in me losing you, and I do not want that.”

“Tell me. I value honesty above anything else.”

“I have a mistress and should I marry, that is not something I wish to change.” He pulled her to a stop. “What are your thoughts on this?”

For a moment Isolde was lost for words, but she checked her emotions, looked for jealousy, anger, or resentment, and nothing happened. The man before her was offering her a home, children, and asking for only one thing in return, to keep a mistress. Had she loved him to the very core of her being, Isolde would never allow such to occur, but she didn’t love him. If anything, Wardoor was a friend and nothing more. “Do not tax yourself, Wardoor. If you wish to live your life after marriage in the same way in which you do now, I shall not stop you. I trust that should we marry you will ensure my health, happiness, and wellbeing, and should I wish for you to end your association that you will, without complaint.”

He frowned. “Could you see yourself asking me such a thing?”

She shrugged. “You have been honest, brutally so, in fact, and so will I in return. I do not love you, and therefore your lifestyle as a rakehell will not affect my happiness. If I should ask you to quit such lifestyle, it will be only because I’ve grown to love you and would not wish to share you with anyone. If I promise not to impinge on your life, can you promise to honor my request should you ever receive it?” The balance of their union hung on what he said next. Isolde held her breath, curious to see what he would say.

“I can promise you that wholeheartedly.” Wardoor took her hand and kissed it.

Isolde pulled him into another stroll, not quite ready to go back inside. “Tell me of your home and lands. What are your plans for it?”

Wardoor gestured quite a lot as he discussed his wishes and plans for the estate in the future years. The conversation only grew in enjoyment, and coming back to the house and joining the party, Isolde was more at ease with Wardoor than she ever had been before. He was a libertine, and the tales about London of his conquests were as wild as his gardens, but that did not mean he wouldn’t make a good husband. His honesty and outlay of their life together calmed Isolde’s unease over the union, and hope bloomed in her chest that what she longed for above all else—children—was close to coming true.

The two weeks at the house party flew by, and Isolde came to feel genuine affection for his lordship. Not love— that emotion she doubted she could ever feel again—but certainly her ease and friendship with his lordship was a good base for a marriage, if he proposed.

On the final night of the house party, Isolde found herself once more walking with Wardoor after dinner. A ritual they’d continued from the first night.

He pulled them to a stop beside the lake and turned to face her. A sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead and glistened in the moonlight. Never before had he looked so pensive and scared, and Isolde braced herself for the proposal that would come. “I believe you know that I would like, above all else, to marry you, Isolde. To make you the Marchioness of Wardoor. The house party, bringing a small portion of Society to my estate, was all an effort to get you away, to have you to myself and out of London, so I could ask you a question that has been burning within me for some time now.”

She stood still, unsure how to respond. This question was what she’d prepared to hear from Wardoor. The chance to move on, to clasp a future with a marriage and children shimmered before her—if only she could take a leap of faith and hope for the best. “I…”

“You’re unsure?” He frowned, and she could see the hurt her pause in answering him inflicted.

Isolde shook herself from the thoughts that always plagued her mind. If she said yes, in only a year, God willing, she too could be pregnant with their first child. Living life in the country, her beloved England again, secure and happy as best she could be under the circumstances.

“I’m of an age, Isolde, when it’s time for me to marry. I must have an heir, and I wish for my children to have you as their mother. I want us to build a life together out of mutual respect and necessity, if you would accept me, that is.” He clasped her hands, and she noted they were shaking. “I have had a wild past as you well know, and you’re aware of how that lifestyle may impact on you, should you say yes,” he said, shrugging. “Will you marry me knowing who I am and how I wish to carry on? Will you be my wife?”

“Would you think me a silly fool for not knowing what to say?” she said, a little lost for words. He pulled her farther into the gardens that bordered the lake, where no lights from the path could intrude on their seclusion.

“Let me kiss you. Let me show you what I may offer you as a husband. I can make you happy, I’m certain of it. I will strive to make each and every day of our marriage a pleasurable one, even enjoyable, if only you would allow me to try.”

She bit her lip. “I…um…” She cursed her stupidity for thinking of Merrick at the mention of the word pleasure. Could she kiss another man? The only gentleman she’d ever allowed such privileges had been Merrick, and oddly, it seemed a betrayal to want to try such an embrace with another. An absurd thought she squashed the moment she considered it. “Yes, you may kiss me.”

Wardoor didn’t shy away from taking her in his arms and doing exactly what he’d asked for. He dipped his head slowly and delicately swiped his lips against hers, urging her to respond to his teasing. She shut her eyes to lessen the nerves that wracked her body. She didn’t want to think about the fact that when her eyes were closed she couldn’t see who was, in fact, kissing her, and she could just enjoy being the center of someone’s intent and purpose.

Wardoor’s hands cradled her face as he deepened the kiss. She opened for him, allowing him to persuade her to be his, to allow the man who was sweet, and trying desperately to woo her, to win her hand. Isolde went through all the motions that made a kiss wonderful, fulfilling, and coaxing, but her body refused to react in the way it always had with Merrick. But then, one could not always have everything one wished for, and what Wardoor offered was a very good option for her. It was identical to most ton marriages she knew, with the exception of Anne’s and her sister Elizabeth’s. “Marry me, Isolde. I will take care of you, I promise,” he whispered against her lips, kissing them softly.

His words resonated with sincerity, and she let go of all the worries that had held back her answer to his question. “I will marry you, my lord.”

He kissed her again, a quick brush of lips, before escorting her back to the house. “I will speak to your mother directly and ask for your brother’s consent when we return to Town. Are you in agreement?”

“Yes, that sounds suitable.” She followed him, not certain what her feelings were about the whole situation. It was all so different to the last time she’d been betrothed. The happiness she’d had with Merrick, the sureness of what she was doing, had been beyond any doubt. But Wardoor had been honest; she was entering the union with her eyes wide open. Once she was married and increasing with their first child, all her concerns would be nothing but a silly memory to dismiss.

“I will have the banns read and send word to London tonight for the announcement to be made public. We can marry a month from now, if you’re happy to do so. I, myself, do not see any reason why we should delay.”

Isolde ignored her tumbling stomach. “I agree. We should marry as soon as it’s arranged. I’m sure Mama will help us, and a Town wedding during the Season should enable all our friends to attend.”

Wardoor pulled her through the terrace doors, and Isolde noted her mama watching her entrance with calculated interest. He clasped two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and called the room to attention. Her sister Alice’s eyes widened and darted between her and Wardoor, and panic seized her, realizing he’d forgotten to address her mother first before making the announcement public. Isolde took a large sip of wine and mouthed “sorry” to her mama, who composed herself with an affable, knowing smile.

“Thank you everyone for taking your time away from Town and joining me here on my country estate. And now, with not a little amount of pleasure, I can announce that Lady Isolde Worthingham has agreed to be my wife, and we will be married before the Season’s out.” He lifted his crystal glass and urged her to do so. “To us, my lady. May I always honor our vows and our life be nothing but bliss and prosperity.”

“To us,” Isolde mimicked, raising her glass and then smiling, laughing, as everyone present came up to congratulate them. Alice came up to her last of all and, making an excuse to Wardoor that she wished to discuss wedding details, pulled her aside.

The moment they were out of her betrothed’s hearing, she hissed, “You said yes!”

Isolde wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question or even an outraged declaration. She nodded, remembering that the future she wished to have could start the moment she said, I do. “I have, and it’s for the best. Please don’t try to persuade me otherwise. He’ll give me a good home, the opportunity to have children of my own. You know I wish that above anything else.”

Alice slumped and then pulled her into a fierce hug. “I was going to try to make you see reason, to perhaps look to the past for your future, but I see your mind is made up, and I’ll not change it for you. And I truly do hope that your dream of being a mother will come, and your heart will finally be full again.”

Isolde understood exactly what her sister meant by her words, and she was thankful for her honesty. “I hope you’re right, and I’m willing to do my best to ensure we have a happy marriage.”

“I know you will.” Alice hugged her again, and Isolde fought the prickling behind her eyelids. Wardoor was a good choice—secure and honest. All would be well. She was sure of it.

Merrick spent a week with William on his estate in Wiltshire before his man of business summoned him back to Town. The missive was precise and to the point. His wife, and her nightly pursuits into the bowels of London, were becoming extreme and more dangerous to herself and the baby she carried. It had to stop and, by God, he’d stop it, if at all possible.

He stared down at the cartoon image of the duchess in the morning paper, fighting not to cast up his accounts. The drawing showed Leonora with a bulging stomach, awkwardly seated upon a man, no doubt Lord Barkley, a drink in one hand and cigar in the other. It was a disgrace. And not only to herself, but her family, his family, and all that they stood for. She was a vicar’s daughter, for the love of God. How could she fall so low as this?

A voice in his head murmured that it was his doing and no one else’s. That Merrick had made her become who she was today—a cold, calculating woman who lived without the love and support of her husband.

A ruckus out in his foyer caught his attention, and he stood, striding from the room to see what the servants were blustering about. A maid dashed upstairs with linens, another with a pail of steaming water.

“Has something happened?” he asked, catching the head housekeeper who followed the maids up the stairs.

“Your Grace.” She bobbed a quick curtsy. “The duchess’s time has come. You should have a new son or daughter within a few hours.”

Merrick nodded, shame washing over him that hearing such news brought forth nothing but ire and disdain. He’d only ever thought of Leonora as a friend, prior to her deceit on the night before his wedding to Isolde. Afterward, he’d hated her more than he ever thought to hate anyone.

And now, with a child coming that wasn’t his—a child he would bestow his name upon, feed, and clothe—his loathing of his wife was even more profound. What she’d done to him was unforgivable, and no matter how wrong such thoughts were, he could not bring himself to care what happened to the woman above stairs.

Screams and yelling punctuated the quiet of the house, followed by other women and their commands. Merrick walked into his library and shut the door, only looking up from the day’s paper at the mumbling sounds of the doctor being greeted in the foyer before he, too, headed upstairs.

Merrick continued to read the paper; having been out of Town, he’d missed what had happened in London. The business section and political news were mostly unchanged, but the notice of a forthcoming nuptial, an occasion foretold as the event of the Season, caught his attention with sickening force.

A cold chill ran down his spine as the words of an engagement between the Lady Isolde Worthingham, daughter to the late Duke of Penworth and Blake Marlborough, Marquess of Wardoor, were printed in black and white before him.

It could not be true… Taking a deep breath, he sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair before picking up the paper and reading it once again, lest there was a mistake. But no, there, in little mocking letters, were printed the words that had the power to stop the heart that beat too fast in his chest.

Merrick stood and poured himself a large glass of brandy, downing it in one swallow. How dare Wardoor, a supposed friend, even if their relationship had been strained of late, do such a thing to him? But then, why would he not, when Lady Isolde, pure and kind, sweet-tempered woman that she was, could possibly be his wife? It also helped that they were both unmarried, of a similar age, and circulated in the same sphere of friends.

And now that Wardoor had sold one of his estates, he was no longer in debt to Lord Barkley, or so his steward had informed him. With a more secure footing on which to start a future with Isolde, and with his wife’s dowry—which was a very large sum indeed—they would be comfortable, to say the least, as would any children they were blessed with in the future.

At the thought of Wardoor getting Isolde with a child, his stomach turned and he stood, walking to the window and throwing up the sash. He didn’t want her to marry another. Selfish bastard that he was, he wanted her to remain a spinster, someone he could admire from afar and know that no matter what others thought, he was hers and she was his. Always.

A light knock sounded on the door, and he turned, answering more sharply than he ought. “Yes.”

His butler entered, a slight smile lifting his lips. “Your Grace, I have joyous news.”

Merrick shut the window and leaned against the seal. He fought to show some emotion other than indifference to what he was about to be told. “What is it?” he asked, smiling a little at his old retainer.

“The duchess has given birth to a healthy daughter. She is in the nursery with the wet nurse now, if you wish to visit her. The duchess is in good health and recovering. She’s asked for peace and quiet.”

“Thank you,” he said, watching as his butler bowed and left, shutting the door with hardly a noise. Merrick stared at the dark wood, his mind conflicted as to what to do. Do I want to see the child? No, in all honesty, he couldn’t give a damn about the babe, but morbid curiosity got the better of him and, within minutes, he found himself climbing the stairs and going to see the daughter who would bear his name, if not his blood.

The wet nurse stood beside the small cot, rocking it slowly as a small figure slept under the white blankets. She greeted him warmly, stepping aside as he went to inspect the child. He thought he would see Lord Barkley staring back at him—a horrible image and one that was wont to give anyone nightmares—and yet it was not what he found.

Instead, a small delicate little girl, with a button nose and perfect lips, lay sleeping, a little dried milk on her bottom lip. Her small perfect hands clutched at the woolen blankets as if she’d never let go, and her ears, the tiniest things he’d ever seen, were covered slightly by dark curls.

Shame washed over him that he could ever be indifferent to this child. He rubbed his jaw, reaching down instinctively and, without thought, picked her up, popping her onto his shoulder. Merrick rubbed her back just as he used to do with William when he had a stomachache.

She made sweet gurgling sounds, and he walked to the nearby chair, sitting and holding her in front of him to take a better look. She was the most adorable little thing he’d ever seen in his life, and he kissed her sweet cheeks and nose until she made it clear such actions were not appreciated.

“You’re as pretty as a flower. I think we’ll call you Lily. Lady Lily will suit you very well.” He counted her fingers and toes and marveled at their miniscule size. “You’re my daughter, and I promise from this day forward that nothing will ever come to harm you. You will have everything your heart desires and more.” Lily fussed in his arms, and he smiled, looking up to the wet nurse. “Under no circumstance is the duchess to take this child outdoors or be left alone with her. Do you understand?”

The wet nurse’s eyes widened, but she nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Whatever you say.”

“Her name is to be Lily, and I wish for her to be brought down to my study whenever she’s not sleeping so I may visit with her. I will, naturally, check on her here throughout the day, as well. If there is anything you need, or are worried about, do not hesitate to come to me. I will assist you, without question.”

“Thank you, sir. I assure you I will.”

Merrick stood, giving Lily another little kiss before handing her to the wet nurse. “I think I may have woken her a little. She may be in need of another feed before she settles.”

The wet nurse smiled. “I think you may be right.” She took the child, and Merrick watched her for a moment before leaving the woman alone with his daughter.

He strode to Leonora’s room, knocked once, and entered. She lay on the bed, facing the windows. Striding to that side of the room, he sat and faced her. “I wish to call the child Lily. What are your thoughts on this?”

“Do what you like with the child.” She sighed. “I’m tired, please leave.” She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“You’re not to take the child out like you did William. In your condition, you’re not to be trusted. Do you understand?” He was being harsh, and this was probably not the best time to have an argument with his wife. Certainly not after she’d given birth. But now that he’d seen his daughter, an overwhelming urge to protect his children against the woman before him overrode all other cares.

She glared at him, her face distorted with so much hate he hardly recognized her. “My condition? Pray tell what you mean by such a statement.”

“That you’re addicted to opium and laudanum. That you have a tendency to take our children out and leave them in the bowels of London, for who-knows-what to happen to them.”

“I forgot William once, and he survived. Do not be such a bore, Merrick. You’ve been fun only once, and I had to spike your drink with opium to get the result I wished.”

“When did you tamper with my drink?” he asked, knowing what her answer would be. Had suspected it for years.

“On the night I seduced you at Mountshaw. I knew to have you sleep with me, and not guess who entered your bed, something a little stronger than spirits was needed. What a triumph that my plan worked.” She grinned. “But you are very tedious to put up with; maybe I should’ve allowed you to marry your boring Isolde, after all. You’re more suited to her than you and I.” Leonora laughed, the sound maniacal.

It was a question he had asked himself often. Why had Leonora wanted to marry him? From the first moment after taking their vows, she’d made it clear that she didn’t care for him or his thoughts. It had taken him only a few weeks to realize that she’d wanted the title of duchess and the triumph over Isolde more than anything else. Even if she’d had to threaten them all to realize such a win. “Your supposed friends do you an injustice thinking that such behavior is an acceptable and healthy way to live. I’m embarrassed to call you my wife.”

“Well then,” she said, still laughing, “what a shame it is that there is nothing for you to do about it.” She met his gaze, no emotion behind her black orbs. “Now leave. I want to be well again so I may have some fun without you, and your presence halts my progress.”

He ignored her. “I have purchased a house for you, where right at this moment your maids are packing up your things to move you there. I will no longer live under the same roof as a woman, who, frankly, repulses me. I will not let the underbelly of this Society grace this home. The children shall be protected from your seedy dealings, and if that means you must live elsewhere, then that is a price I’m willing to pay.”

“Your children? Only William is yours.” She snickered. “What a lark laying with you when you were so foxed. ‘The duped duke,’ I should call you. La, what a triumph! Poor Isolde, still pining for you, all these years later.”

Merrick ground his teeth, hating that part of what she said was true. He had been duped and a damn fool to not know when he was being deceived, even now. “The children are mine, and I’ll not have anyone slander their name, not even their mother. Heed the warning, Leonora. It’s in your best interest.”

“Do you want to know who the father is of your precious Lily? You’ll never guess.”

Merrick stood, not willing to hear any more. She was as vicious as a snake just out of hibernation, wanting to strike and injure any who were about. “As soon as you’re well enough, you will be leaving. We cannot divorce, and you’ll have an allowance, but should you exceed it, do not think to ask for any more funds, as I will not grant them.”

“How dare you, you bastard. How dare you dictate to me. Your wife.”

“Very easily, and I should’ve tightened the reins on you years ago. I’m ashamed of myself that I did not.” Merrick stood, striding toward the door. Leonora threw back the blankets and shuffled out of the bed, following him.

“I hate you. You’re as pompous as that sniveling fool, Isolde. Always right, always kind to those in need. You make me sick.” She came up hard against him and slapped his face. Merrick narrowed his eyes against the sting and walked out, calling a footman over who hovered in the passageway. “The duchess requires rest. She is neither to leave nor receive visitors.”

The footman’s eyes widened, but he nodded, going to stand beside the duchess’s door.

Leonora leaned out into the passage, grinning like a woman without wits. “The girl’s father is Wardoor. How do you think Isolde will take such news?”

Merrick halted.

“It’s quite a funny story, and one I’m sure you want to hear, so I’ll tell you.” She walked out into the passage, running a hand across the footman’s chest, the lad blushing furiously. “I found your closest friend, passed out in the opium den where you found William that day. Quite naked, I might add. Well…” she paused, smirking, “from the chest up, in any case. I was curious if an unconscious man could still perform as I like them to, and so you can imagine my pleasure when I found out he could. Lord Barkley enjoyed the show as well, and we’ve had many a good laugh about it since then.”

Merrick stared at her a moment, not wanting to listen or commence another argument. He met his butler at the top of the stairs as he started down them. The more distance between him and his wife, the better. She was beyond help. No woman with any self-respect could do such a thing to another human being, or gloat about it afterward, as if it were as common as cake and tea. “Please have the duchess helped back to bed. I fear she’s not herself.”

His butler nodded, walking toward Leonora who followed Merrick, leaning over the balustrade.

“He has a lovely large cock, Merrick. Thick and long. Isolde will be well pleased when she beds him, now that they’re to be married.” She started down the stairs, her laughter echoing through the house. “I know you are aware of it. The news is almost front page in the morning’s paper.”

Merrick turned and met his wife’s wild gaze. “Go back to your room, Leonora. I think it’s fair to say we have nothing further to say to each other, now or ever. In fact,” he continued, “if you’re so well to be out of bed, I’m sure I can have you moved from here sooner than I thought.”

She huffed. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? But I’m not going anywhere, dearest husband. I intend on being your lovely wife for a long time to come.” Leonora ran down the stairs, her eyes feral with anger. “You always thought—”

Merrick took a step toward her when he noted her misstep. A piercing scream rent the air and horrified, he watched as Leonora tripped over her own shift, toppling forward and hitting the marble stairs with a sickening crack.

He ran to her as she lay at the bottom of the stairs, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, her body at an awkward angle to her head. With shaking fingers, Merrick reached to feel her neck, and the protruding bone told him it was broken. Leaning down, he listened for a heartbeat, but no comforting sound resonated in her chest. His stomach roiled. What had just happened? This could not be. Not this. No matter how much he hated Leonora, he never wanted her dead. The butler kneeled beside Leonora, his eyes wide with shock.

“Your Grace?”

Merrick slumped onto the floor, feeling, more than seeing, the ducal staff surrounding them. “Send for the doctor.” When his servant didn’t move, he yelled, “Now, man!”

The butler sent two footmen to do his bidding. Not sure if he should move Leonora, he stood and walked into his library and collected a blanket. Coming back into the foyer he placed it over her and sat down, closing her eyes, as if in sleep.

He stayed there until the doctor arrived, and confirming his own supposition that she’d died during the fall, the doctor helped the servants organize for Leonora to be placed back in her room. Merrick summoned his man of business who would prepare the funeral.

Merrick dropped into his leather desk chair, the last words between him and Leonora loud and tormenting in his mind. He cringed, standing and pouring himself a large glass of brandy, hoping the amber liquid would drown the horrible situation in which he now found himself. Downing the beverage quickly, he refilled the crystal glass, walking to the settee before the fire, staring at the flames but feeling no heat.

How could he have been so cruel? How could he have said such words to his wife? He stared at the orange flames licking the wood, wishing he could take back the last two hours of his life and knowing with sickening dread that he could not.

The thought of laying Leonora, such a young woman, to rest, was not something he wished to contemplate. Nor the fact that he would have to tell William that his mama had died, and so tragically, as well.

A light knock sounded against the door.

“Enter,” he said, not looking to see who intruded.

“Your Grace,” the doctor said, coming over to where he sat and taking a seat himself, even though Merrick didn’t offer him one. The rotund man placed his bag on the floor, steepling his fingers before his chin. “I believe it would be best, under the circumstances, for you to say the duchess passed away during childbirth. I’ve just spent the past hour with an inconsolable maid who told me of your purchasing a house for your wife and having her move there, instead of living with you.”

Merrick frowned, looking up at the doctor. “What of it? It was no secret that our marriage was not a love match, and I’m sure you’re aware that the child born only hours ago is not mine. The whole ton knows of our disastrous union, but I fail to see why I should lie about her death.”

“Can you not?” The doctor leaned back in his chair, and Merrick wondered how he could seem so calm at such a time. His own blood pumped fast in his veins, and no matter how many glasses of brandy he consumed, something told Merrick they would not help him in the least.

“No. I cannot.”

The doctor sighed. “Some may think it not an accident. And before you state otherwise, I know there were witnesses to what occurred, but it wouldn’t be the first time a man of influence has paid off his servants to keep quiet.”

“I didn’t kill my wife.” Merrick leaned forward in his chair, slamming his glass upon the mahogany table before them. “Is that what you’re implying?”

“I know you did not kill Her Grace, but to keep your name from any more tarnish, it would be best if you stated she died of complications during the birth of your daughter. Society does not need to know everything.”

Merrick stood, walking to the mantle and leaning against it when he swayed. “I would know.”

“Think on it.” The doctor stood, picking up his bag. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Your Grace. May the duchess rest in peace.”

“Thank you,” he replied, tugging the bellpull. Within moments of the doctor leaving, a footman entered. “Have the carriage readied. I’m leaving for Mountshaw on the morn. And please notify the wet nurse in charge of Lady Lily to prepare the child for travel also.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The butler bowed, fleeing as fast as he’d come.

Merrick scribbled a note to his man of business, telling him of the circumstances that had befallen them all and ordering him to hire the best funeral furnishers he could find to have Leonora brought to Mountshaw for burial as soon as possible.

And after he’d said his final good-byes to his wife, Merrick would close up the London home and leave for Mountshaw where he would stay indefinitely. London and its detrimental pressures and temptations could go hang.